


Lassalle or The Nearly Fictitious Account of the Life of Armand de Sillègue

by MlledeLaRoseBlanche



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, Original Work, d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Inspired by the inspirations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2495108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlledeLaRoseBlanche/pseuds/MlledeLaRoseBlanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wholly imagined retelling of the life of Armand de Sillègue d'Autevielle d'Athos, Béarn cadet, King's Musketeer, and romantic, country-raised idealist</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Birth

**Author's Note:**

> While names may be similar to Dumas' novels, any histories contained within will be based more on the inspirations that led to the creation of his arguably four most popular characters. 
> 
> Please forgive me for major discrepancies as I am not a native of France and have little access to any potentially useful materials housed there. I only share a love for that "fabulous foursome", a desire to write about them, and a vague inspiration to guide me. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Constructive criticisms are encouraged.

In May 1615, springtime was in full bloom under France's blazing sun. In the region of Béarn in the south, the foothills of the Pyrénées, the tiny walled hamlet of Athos, within a stone's throw of the doors of Sauveterre, and its people, peasant men and eldest sons occupied with the cultivation of their farmland, sweated under that sun that bronzed the skin and inflamed the blood of Gascon men. Fathers guided the plow behind large heavy farm horses, a switch in hand to encourage the beast, and the sons followed with large sacks thrown over their shoulders, sowing seeds left and right in the tilled soil. Their women at home within the farmhouses, no less spirited if not better hidden, toiled as well, cooking over the open hearth and burning fingers as girls learned at their mothers' hips. The experienced washed upstream in the nearby river and laughed in a friendly, reminiscent way at those who worked twice as hard downstream, thinking back to when they were taught how to avoid washing others filth out of your own clothes. The cleaning had to be done, sweeping the floors repeatedly through the day and scrubbing the dirtied pans and hollowed wooden bowls. Children fed the animals, tossing grains for the chickens, dumping slop for pigs, piling hay and prepping feedbags of oats for horses when they were brought back from the fields. 

           Within this hamlet, standing over it in imposing stature was the château Lassalle. A manor of the 14th century, it is fortified by a large bailey and built of stone, and houses the seigneur of the region, Adrien de Sillègue, comte d'Athos and d'Autevielle, who on this day could be found in his study at his desk before parchment sheaves he found hard to contemplate. With forced concentration, he frowned down at his ledgers, dragging his finger down the columns of numbers indicating collected taxes either in gold or in grain, wine, or meat, and its value. He sat back in his chair after a few moments, a relatively young man of handsome, but stern, face bearing well-trimmed moustaches and beard in the style royale and brown curling hair. Being only two years after succeeding his father Bertrand as his only son, Adrien found the calculations as dull and repetitive as during his first instruction about them, despite knowing their necessity. 

           A cry split the air and Adrien reached for the cup of wine on his desk, nursing its rich, red contents in his hand for a moment before drinking. His wife was giving birth to their second child after four years since the birth of their son Jean, who was a quiet and precocious boy according to his nurse. He set down the half-empty cup, took up his quill, and began to pen a letter to his wife's brother on her behalf, being that she was in no state to share her happy news. There were no further cries for several minutes, leaving him only with the scratching of his quill on the parchment. So focused was he that he started at the knock on the door, his hand jerking and blotting the paper before him in the middle of a phrase. With an irritated shout, he summoned his interrupter within as he crumpled the paper and tossed it into the fireplace. A young woman opened the door; her hair pulled back underneath her bonnet, and she guided a boy in by the hand. His robes were a long, pale blue, plain of fripperies such as ribbons or shining pipe trims, which they could not afford, but they were clean, made of soft brocade fabric, and had lace cuffs around the collar and wrists. Adrien offered the child a small smile then turned to the woman, his nurse. 

           "Why have you come, Marguerite?" he asked, standing and walking round the desk to be before the pair. "I told you to keep Jean outside today." Marguerite curtseyed to the man before speaking. 

           "Begging you pardon, but Monsieur Jean wished to visit you, Monseigneur," she replied. 

           "Did he now?" Adrien turned his gaze down to his son, who was looking up at him with wide, brown eyes so similar to his own, brown curls sticking to his sweat-beaded forehead.  "What do you need of me, my son?" 

           "Is it a brother or a sister?" Jean asked. Adrien sighed, shaking his head. Jean had asked this question almost every day without fail, despite telling him to stop repeating it. Yet his relentless curiosity was unwavering and he continued to pose the question to both parents, whomever Jean would come across first that day. Adrien crouched down to face his son, one knee on the ground, and placed a hand on the small, bony shoulder. 

           "Jean, I think you--" There was suddenly movement in the corridor beyond and Jacqueline, his wife's maid, entered in a busy flurry of movement. So excited was she, she stepped on the hem of her wool skirt and fell forward, landing on the floor at Adrien's feet, where Jean had stood just moments before Marguerite had gathered him up in her arms to remove him from harm's way. Jacqueline, known for her unbridled excitement over the simplest things, was as uncoordinated as a newborn foal, but loyal as a good hound, and his wife was fond of her. She scrambled to her knees, babbling excuses hastily, and Adrien shook his head slowly with a sigh. 

           "Jacqueline, what has you so flustered?" he asked gently, knowing that if he took any other tone with her, he would be subject to several long, lonely nights. 

           "The baby, Monseigneur," she gasped breathlessly. "Oh, he is a beautiful little thing and Madame Jeanne did so well." Adrien could not hold back the smile that grew on his features. He offered his hand to the fallen servant and helped bring her to her feet. Jean, too, had heard her announcement and was pulling away from Marguerite in an effort to make her release him from her hold. 

           "I want to see my brother," he demanded irritably. 

          "Bring him along, Marguerite. Let us pay our respects and congratulations to Madame," said Adrien, leading the way from the study into the corridor beyond. With the curtains drawn back, light poured in through the windows. Jacqueline trotted behind him alongside Marguerite, who still held the irritated Jean, and cooed about the new baby's tiny fingers and toes, which she herself had washed while the midwife tended to her mistress. When they arrived at the door to Jeanne's room, it was wide open. The chamber, taken up large furniture, housed a four-poster bed, its thick velvet curtains drawn back and tied at the posts and a heavy, trunk with a rounded top at its foot stood with its head against the middle of the back wall. A sofa waited on arching legs like it was attempting to do ballet nearby with a small side table on which were several books and the beginnings of some embroidery. Two wardrobes set against the wall by a vanity housed her clothing, all the overdresses and thick skirts, the farthingale hoops to hold them up and the wide, heavily starched collars that tied tight about the neck and itched madly. A writing desk with many small drawers was placed under a window so she could write at any moment of the day, and a set of table and chairs waited close to the fireplace for when she wished to dine alone, though this never occurred and he often sat and talked with her there in the evenings. Jeanne du Peyrer reclined against pillows that propped her up in the bed, her dark hair mussed and likely tangled, her normally pale face flushed with colour from her efforts, and a tightly wrapped bundle of swaddling cradled in her arms. The midwife, a local woman with worn, callused hands from decades of labouring in the fields and wispy greying brown hair, stood at her side and spoke with her quietly. As they entered, another maid was quick to leave, carrying a bucket and looking green about the face. Jean twisted about in the nurse's arms to watch the maid leave then asked so innocently: 

           "What was that red thing in the bucket?" Marguerite frowned at him sternly. 

           "Never mind that, Monsieur, it is not for little boys to know," she set him down at last on the floor, turned him, and nudged his shoulder gently. "Go see your mother and your new brother." Adrien approached the bed and the midwife glanced up, stepping back as Jeanne waved her away to offer her son to his father's gaze. 

           "Adrien, my husband, is our boy not handsome?" she asked softly, pulling back some of the swaddling to reveal the still-red and wrinkled face, the head longer and narrower than it should likely have been and crowed with a thick tuft of jet black hair much like his mother's. His tiny lips pouted and he gave a little snort as he tried to turn his head into Jeanne's warmth and bury his face against her. Adrien offered a brief smile and reached out to touch the downy cheek. 

           "Ask me again in a day or so when he is not so fresh," he kidded, winking at her when she pouted with a huff at him. He felt a tug on the panes of his short breeches and looked down to see Jean contemplating him with a great effort at mimicking his serious expression. 

           "I want to see. Let me see," he ordered, standing on his toes and grabbing hold of the blankets to try to pull him up. Adrien hooked him under the arms and bodily lifted him to sit next to Jeanne, little high-heeled feet dangling over the side as he sat as still as possible on his knees. He peered over the blankets at the baby quietly, unmoving, then looked at his father and said: 

           "He is too small to be a brother." Adrien wrapped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed gently. 

           "He will grow, Jean, just as you have." Jean stared for half a minute more then slid down off the bed. Adrien sent him over to Marguerite, but Jean stopped halfway and turned back. 

           "Mother, does he have a name?" Jeanne smiled and nodded. 

           "Yes Jean. I have called him Armand." Jean nodded then allowed himself to be led away quietly by his nurse, curiosity finally satisfied. Adrien played the name over in his mind, rubbing at his chin in a mock-thoughtful pose. 

           "Armand de Sillègue, it does fit well," he remarked, leaning in to kiss his wife's forehead. "Armand it shall be. Rest my dear for you have made me a very happy man this day." He left her side and the midwife returned to it, gathering the babe in her arms to lay him in the waiting cradle at the side of Jeanne's bed under Adrien's watchful gaze from the door before he left, closing it behind him.


	2. The Baby

Within the hour of his son's birth, Adrien summoned the nurse Jeanne had engaged on his behalf to feed and care for the boy. She arrived promptly at his call, if a little puffy-eyed. He ignored the twinge of pity that struck, drowning it with a sip of wine.  


"You are to begin your duties immediately, Marie," he said, gesturing for her to sit before him.  


"Yes, Monseigneur." She was young and pale, a newly grieving mother whose milk was of undetermined quality. Whereas Adrien had ensured the quality of Jean's nurse as a caring mother, he was not so concerned with that of his second son and thus he had allowed his wife to choose. He examined her across the desk as she avoided his gaze, looking steadily to her knees. Her blond hair seemed brassy in the firelight, her skin browned from the sun in some places it had yet to fade, and she seemed slight of stature.  


"I expect you to remain here until such time my son is able to pass the night without your assistance. You are to be responsible for all of his care and you will answer for anything that should occur with him. After such a time has passed, I will determine whether you shall stay permanently as his nurse until he is of the age to be taught."  


"Yes, Monseigneur," she replied softly. He watched her a moment more and when she said nothing, he dismissed her, sending her to Jeanne to be introduced to Armand. She was quick to leave, shutting the door quietly behind her and finally allowing a breath of relief. While fair, the Comte was stern and he frightened her with his stoicism. Although others had recounted to her incidents where he joined the peasants in the field during harvest to assist, and she respected her fellows for these accounts, she was still unfamiliar with her employer and he unnerved her.  


She continued down the short hall to where she knew the Comtesse's rooms to be and knocked gently on the door. When she heard permission from the Comtesse, she entered. Although perfumed with a mixture of burning wood and lavender oil, the room still smelt of the faint metallic stench of blood. Jeanne was reclined on the bed, whose sheets had evidently been changed between the present moment and the birth. Her cheeks were still grey from her efforts and her lids were half-closed with tiredness, but her eyes sparkled. Her black hair was loose, but freshly brushed by her maid Eugenie, and she wore a fresh nightgown and dressing robe. The midwife had been paid and dismissed, her duties complete. Marie knew that those ruined sheets and clothes would never be seen again, taken by the woman and burned in a fire outside with one saved to bury the afterbirth. Upon closing the door behind her, Marie curtseyed to the woman in the bed. Jeanne waved her closer with one hand while covering a yawn with the other.  


"My husband summoned you quickly," she remarked with a worn smile. "I hope you were not sleeping when he did."  


"No, Madame," she assured. "A good number of the household was awake to hear the news of the new Vicomte." Jeanne turned her face to look down at the small wooden cradle where within lay her son in a tightly wrapped bundle of swaddles. He did not whimper despite likely hunger, appearing to be resting like his mother after his own ordeal. His narrow face, made so by his rather oddly shaped head, appeared redder from the firelight. Marie peered into the cradle as well, unconsciously holding her breath so as not to disturb him.  


"You may hold him Marie. You are to be his nurse after all. You may as well accustom yourself to his weight." Marie wiped her slippery hands on her skirt front to dry them then tucked them easily under his head and rear, lifting him into her arms. She cradled his face in her elbow, the short length of his body fitting her arm. He was warm and he barely whimpered from the change of sleeping placement. Jeanne looked on with a strangely longing expression in her eyes, wrapping the folds of her dressing gown about her even more tightly.  


"Go on, my dear. You must wake him and feed him. How else is he to grow without your milk?" Marie looked down almost shamefully, sitting on the edge of the bed and shielding herself from the Comtesse's eyes. She loosened her corset, revelled briefly in the freedom of being able to breathe, and then bared her breast. She brought Armand to the teat, brushing it under his nose and touching his cheek with feather-soft brushes to wake him gently and guide him into latching. This took little time and he fed hungrily, tiny suckling sounds nearly buried under the crackle of burning wood.  


"Madame, are you dissatisfied with my work?" she asked nervously. Jeanne started, blinking at the young woman owlishly as if she had forgotten she was there.  


"My dear Marie, whatever gave you such a notion?" Marie shook her head and Jeanne smiled at her.  


"I believe Armand is taken with you already. You will be an excellent nurse; I am certain of this."  


"Thank you, Madame," she replied, trying to once more focus on the young Vicomte instead of his hungry mother who longed to feed her own baby, but was not allowed. When the night came, however, and the babe had been moved into his prepared nursery, Marie began to understand why the Comtesse did not nurse her own children.  


Armand's lungs were powerful and gave him such a screeching cry that it startled her instantly from her deep sleep and left her heart pounding for several moments before she understood what had woken her. Red-faced and wailing, the young Vicomte cried to the heavens, demanding that his needs be met, and Marie complied, uncovering her breast from within her nightshirt and offering him the teat to silence him. She let him feed until he stopped, rubbed his back while holding him to her shoulder as she had seen her mother do with her younger siblings, and placing him back into his cradle once he had burped. He was already half-asleep by this time, to her surprise and immense relief, and she gently rocked the cradle with her foot, sitting on a stool that had been placed next to it. When he was softly breathing, she stopped rocking the cradle and stood to place more wood in the hearth and stoke the coals.  


His cry stopped her and she turned in surprise, listening to the baby scream and watching him squirm for a few moments before she left the hearthside and returned to her stool to continue rocking him. As soon as the cradle moved, he silenced again and immediately calmed.  


"You are going to be a demanding one," she muttered, sighing and wrapping her arms about herself. Even though it was springtime, soon to enter the summer months, the castle chilled at night and was draftier than most would realise. She rubbed her upper arms under her nightshirt, yawned, and glanced towards the screen behind which her bed was placed. How she longed to curl up under the cover and breathe in the hay-scent of the mattress, at least until the next time her charge cried for her. The cradle's rocking slowed as Marie cautiously took her foot away and stood from her stool once more. The fire had died down even more. She could only the sparse popping of the coals and the barest of crackling as the last of the wood burned. She turned away from the sleeping babe. As she carefully stacked the wood and prepared a batch of twigs as kindling, Armand wailed once more, startling her into dropping the materials.  


"No, oh no, no, no!" She stomped on the smoking twigs, crumbling them and quashing the sparks. The baby continued to cry. With a deep sigh, she returned to his side, contemplating the long night ahead of her.  


***  


Months passed alongside many sleepless nights for Marie until Armand finally slept all night through. She would bring him out from the cradle and walk him through the castle, bound and bundled in his swaddles, and would always bring him to his mother’s side as she sewed and read her Bible aloud in French. Although uncomfortable with Jeanne’s recitals, Marie said nothing against her. It was not her place to scold a noblewoman, even if she was a Protestant; it was far too dangerous.  


Despite her misgivings of her mistress and her religion, Jeanne was as devoted a mother as her standing allowed. However, she doted on the baby more than her older son, who frequently kept to himself with his nurse in the study under his father’s eye. Jeanne would take Armand from Marie and hold him close, kissing his pale cheeks, touching noses, and tracing his cherubic features with the tips of her fingers. It was on his mother’s sitting room floor that Armand first rolled himself over when Marie unbundled him and it was there that he crawled about, hiding under Jeanne and Marie’s skirts, giggling every time they found him there.  


Adrien did not visit and in fact paid little mind to his son during this time. He was frequently out of the castle and when he did come back as darkness fell, he was sweat-soaked and dusty, his skin slowly becoming a darker brown with every passing day. He rested twice a week, but only to verify his accounts, and Marie did not cross his path until the Comte paid a sudden visit to his wife’s room on one of his resting days. Jeanne had just ordered the previous day that Jean’s walking stool be brought out of storage for Armand’s use as he was showing the typical signs of eagerness to begin walking, using others’ clothing and the furniture to pull himself up on chubby legs and drag himself upright around the room. Adrien arrived just as Armand was stood in the walking stool, which was really two smaller and larger wooden rings held in an unpointed, upright cone by rods with wheels on the bottom, larger ring. Armand saw his father, but not really knowing the man, he hung back and blinked at him from his place in the stool.  


“He is progressing well,” remarked his father, sparing him a warm, half-smile. Jeanne nodded, setting aside her newest embroidery effort.  


“He is a very curious boy, Monsieur,” she replied. “He enjoys exploring and Marie keeps excellent watch over him.” Marie ducked her head from her seat on a stool nearby, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. There was a little shuffling sound and Armand took a small step, hands gripping the upper ring. Now that he could stand, he was clothed in his brother’s old robes and was still unused to the clothing changing how he could move. He stepped on the hem and rocked forward dangerously. Adrien was quick, grabbing and steadying the rolling stool from the back so that all the wheels touched the ground once more. Armand looked up at him and offered him a gummy smile.  


“He will be fine,” he said gently. He rested his hand on the infant’s head then departed the room after kissing his wife’s hand.  


“Madame, might I ask you a question?” Marie said quietly after Adrien had left.  


“You may,” replied Jeanne as she took up her needle and thread once more, pushing it through the fabric.  


“If Monsieur the older Vicomte is to become the Comte, what is Arma- I mean Monsieur the younger Vicomte to be instead?” Jeanne thought a moment, still sewing. She made several stitches as Marie looked on with one eye on Armand as he took more tiny, shuffling steps.  


“I believe the phrase is said thus: ‘One for the land, one for the army, and one for the Church’,” said Jeanne finally, her lips pursed in a grim line. “There is not enough land here for both of them to maintain a life to which they shall be accustomed, and Armand will likely be sent to become a soldier and make his own fortune.”  


“Oh, I see.” Marie regarded the infant fearfully, trying to imagine him grown, brandishing a blade and charging into battle with a smile on his face and wild laughter in his eyes as befit any Frenchman worthy of the name, and the ultimate risk of sacrifice it thus pertained. She could only see the babe before her and bit her lips to keep from whimpering in fear.  


***  


The winter was harsher than normal that year, glacial in fact, and the family was forced to remain indoors and the spring was slow to come. In every room, the hearths burned hot and bright, and Marie had a difficult time in keeping Armand away as he began to take his first steps with more assurance. He wanted to reach for the prettily-coloured flames and she not let him do that, and was thus he was subject to having his tiny hands slapped frequently by her as a warning. He was difficult to teach, being that he was so stubborn, but he did learn after a time and she was proud.  


One night, as Marie held him in her arms, the two of them shivering in her bed as the wind howled outside and made the shutters rattle ominously, he buried his face into her chest and whimpered “Maman.” Marie felt her heart clench and her throat grow tight as discordant feelings swept over her. She stroked her fingers through his fine layer of black hair and kissed the top of his head.  


“Mon petit soldat, I am not your Maman.” The boy clung tightly to her nightgown just the same. Marie sighed and held Armand close, knowing that, come the morning, she would need to inform the Comtesse of this development. With this in mind, she tried to fall back to sleep, listening to the infant’s steadied breathing.  


When the morning came, Marie approached the Comtesse after breakfast, leaving Armand with his brother and Marguerite, and begged her forgiveness for the self-perceived slight to the noblewoman.  


“Madame, I did not expect the young Vicomte to call me by such a name,” she pleaded. “Please, I do not mean to offend you.” Jeanne lifted a hand to stop the flow of apologies and Marie closed her mouth, biting her lip and fighting against the tears in her eyes that threatened to fall. Jeanne sighed softly, brushing her hands down over her skirts to smooth the wrinkles distractedly.  


“Bring me my son, Marie,” she ordered softly. Marie quickly curtsied and all but fled the room, choking back a sob of combined fear and relief. While the Comtesse had not immediately dismissed her for her younger son’s fault of language, it was still a possibility. Still, Marie had hope as she entered the study. Armand reached for her, smiling his wide baby smile, dimples forming in his cheeks, and she scooped him up and left without a glance to neither Marguerite nor the elder Vicomte seated with his book, though he ignored her anyway.  


She returned to the Comtesse’s rooms bearing the infant, who waved his hands and babbled "Mamamamam" the entire time. Jeanne was still seated, her embroidery set aside on the round spindly table next to her preferred chair. Armand continued to babble as Marie placed him in his mother’s arms. Jeanne began to laugh such a laugh that her normally serene, calm expression seemed foreign on her face. Her eyes lit with delight, crinkling at the corners in the frankness of her smile missing only a tooth, a rarity in the current times. The infant in her lap cooed as she petted his head, smoothing his hair back along his scalp.  


“Ah Marie, you have nothing to fear. Armand is still too young to be saying anything of sense yet. Like his older brother, he is making nought but noise. Oh he will speak soon enough, but not just yet.” She bent her head and kissed his brow, holding her lips to his skin a moment or two. He caught hold of one of his curls in his plump fist and tugged unabashedly, making her flinch but laugh more. Marie simply smiled and quietly dismissed herself.


	3. The Bath

Two years passed and Armand was quick to pass from walking to running, and with this passage, he became more and more of a menace for his nurse. Jeanne found the anecdotes endearing, often scooping up the child to kiss his cheeks and coo about his mischief-making ways as his nurse recounted the tales to her. The child's screech of laughter could often be heard echoing in the halls as he fled from the irritated Marie, often naked and dripping as he was not content being washed. It was the same instance this evening, as Armand took little time in fleeing shortly after Marie poured the water over his head, little behind all a-wobble as he trotted away with the greatest glee at his escaping genius. Jean, now six and breeched early, would somehow ignore the whirlwind that was his younger brother as he tore around the study, his favourite place to hide, ducking under furniture and evading Marie's grasp. Marguerite, when she was available, would sometimes offer assistance as they tried to corner the small, slippery, black-haired boy, to no avail.

"No, no, no!" Armand yelled, arms stuck straight out as he trotted along then crawled underneath an oaken table with thick carved legs set near the fireplace.

"Come here you scamp!" said Marie, reaching for him and missing as he slid away from her and ran out the other end. She cursed loudly as she struck her head while trying to scramble out from under the table. Armand laughed and ran for the open door only to stop as he ran straight into a booted, spur-less foot and fell back on his bare bottom. He looked up into his father's face, whose brow rose in contemplation of his younger son's predicament at his feet. The boy smiled up at him, opening and closing his fat hand in a wave.

"Papa, see you!"

"Now what have we here, I wonder," said Adrien, folding his arms over his chest and leaning forward slightly to see the small form. "Monsieur Vicomte, are you misbehaving?"

"No!" said Armand, lips pursed and eyes wide as he stared up. Adrien's expression twisted in a suspicious frown at the boy as Marie staggered over, rubbing the back of her head.

"Monsieur le Comte, please forgive me. If the young master is not climbing tables and chairs like trees then he is escaping from the bath."

"And prancing about naked, I see," said Adrien dryly, bending down and lifting the boy up into his arms. Armand squealed happily, reaching forward and touching his father's mustache curiously.

"Now then my young troublemaker let us see if we cannot bathe you." Adrien glanced at Jean, who did not look up from the book in his lap, and shook his head in wonderment at the boy's focus, even though he could barely read as of yet. Marie followed contritely after the pair all the way back to the nursery where the wooden tub and water pitcher awaited next to a bar of animal fat pressed with mint leaves. The room was warm from a low-burning fire and the shutters were wide open to reveal the night sky and darkened countryside. Several carved toys, mostly horses, littered the floor and Marie began to gather them hurriedly to put them away in the basket next to the overlarge trunk at the end of the boy's rumpled bed. Adrien went to place the boy down in the tub, but Armand clung to his doublet and dangled freely, giggling at his act. The man frowned and shook a little, but the boy held firm, and he heard Marie cough as she stifled a laugh.  

"Gentlemen wash before bed," said Adrien firmly, shaking once more.

"No!" declared Armand yet again with a toothy grin. Adrien sighed and bent lower until Armand's feet touched the water then he swore as the boy began to kick wildly, splashing water all down his front and on the carpet around the tub with the greatest glee. He forcefully pried his son's fingers free, grimacing as the water soaked further through his clothes when he straightened. With a sigh, he stripped down to his chemise and breeches, hung the damp doublet and jerkin on the back of a nearby chair, and knelt down next to the tub where Armand sat splashing.

"You really must learn some new words," said Adrien, taking the bar of soap and wetting it. Armand attempted to grab it from him, but Adrien sharply tapped his clawing little fingers warningly, drawing a slight whimper from the boy.

"Gentleman do not grab," he stated as he wet a cloth and applied the soap. "Up you stand, now." He lifted the toddler to his feet and Armand stomped in the water until Adrien caught his arm and forced him to still. Armand wrinkled his little nose and tried to squirm away as his father's tried to wash his neck then again when he finally reached his toes. Adrien gritted his teeth, stubbornly continuing to wash the wriggling, splashing child. However, when he went to scoop water into the pitcher to pour over the boy, it clicked against the bottom of the tub and came up with very little water at all.

"Marie!" he snapped, looking at the girl who was in the middle of banking the fire with fresh wood. She jolted upright and spun to face the Comte, her arms laden with the logs.

"Oui, Monseigneur?"

"Fetch some more water else I cannot rinse the Vicomte," he ordered. She immediately dropped the logs into a basket next to the mantel, scooped up the bucket she had used to heat the water and fill the tub, and began to leave the room. Armand craned his head to watch her leave, something catching his eye on her skirt.

“Papa, look!” Adrien shook his head and made to force the boy to sit in the tub. Armand squirmed, scrabbling up his arm and grabbing at his shoulder to pull himself up, a wet, drippy foot placed on his chest.

“Armand, let go,” said Adrien, trying to extracate his son’s fist from his hair.

“Fire, Papa, fire!” Armand wrenched his head to the side with a swift tug of his hair. When his eyes finally stopped streaming, Adrien watched the orange glow on the back of Marie’s skirt disappear around the door and into the hall. It took him a moment to comprehend his son's words with what he had seen before he reacted. All but throwing the naked toddler on the bed, the Comte rushed from the room with the dregs of the bath water.

"Marie, freeze where you are," yelled Adrien, coming up behind her. She spun around frightfully, spooked by his tone. As she had turned, she had noticed the small flicker of orange behind her and pulled her skirt around to look.

"For God's sake, stop moving!" he ordered. She was shaking her skirt fitfully, trying to dislodge the embers that were burning holes in the fabric. He lightly stepped about her, doing his best not to spill his last bit of water.

"Stand still, by God, girl!" A door opened, but both were too occupied to notice it. He caught her arm in his right hand and awkwardly dumped the tub behind her with his left. There was a hiss, a sizzle, and a slight curl of smoke. Brown-rimmed patches where the hem had burned away, nibbled by the hot coals, dotted the lower middle of the skirt. Left to fester, they would have managed to build into a fire as she walked. Marie was shaking with fright and Adrien closed his eyes, dropping the tub to the floor.

"My Lord, what has happened here?" asked Jeanne. "I heard such frightful yelling. And why are you all wet?" Adrien shook his head, releasing Marie from his grip. She backed away, stumbling over her own feet.

"Go and fetch the water, Marie," he said lowly. She half-bowed, half-curtseyed to him then staggered away silently down the stairs. Jeanne approached and touched her husband's face with the back of her alabaster white hand, a touch into which he leaned with closed eyes.

"What is it, my dear?" she asked softly, eyes lit with concern. "You are sweat-soaked and I can feel you shake." He grabbed her suddenly, pulling her close and, ignoring her surprised exclamation, took her mouth in a feverish kiss.

"Maman, Papa, what you do?" chirped a voice at their feet. The couple separated and looked down at Armand staring up at them, his mouth agape, and his hair mussed and damp, as naked as Adrien had left him. Jeanne had to cover her mouth to hide her smile and Adrien leaned his head against hers, his shoulders shaking with contained laughter.


	4. The Breeching

It was a breezy fall day in his fourth year when Armand realised that there was a marked difference between himself and his brother. Beyond their widely disparate temperaments and physical sizes, the young boy had never quite realised that they truly were ages apart until the day his older brother was breeched. Breeching was a big moment for a growing youth as it meant that they were now transitioning from being irrational, helpless creatures to beings of reason. Although Jean had already begun to be tutored for several years prior to his eighth birthday and had been wearing breeches for at least two years, they had been old, modified clothing of his father’s. He was now fully capable of getting up to relieve himself without reminders from his nurse and accidents were few and far between. 

For this milestone, Adrien had ordered the village tailor to come to the house to take Jean's measures and fashion him a brand new suit suitable for a country gentleman. And so the tailor came the following day with his assistant bearing bolts of fabric and his wife carrying a basket of needles and various coloured threads, as well as a pair of scissors, and were greeted at the door by Armand and Marie.

"Monsieur, why do you come?" asked Armand, trying to stand tall and mimic his father's steady voice. Marie gripped his shoulder, pulling him to her and out of the open door.

"Armand, please, let the tailor pass. Please come in Monsieur. I will lead you to the study where Monsieur le Comte awaits you." She scooped up the child, who continued to pepper the visitors with questions over her shoulder regardless of her whispered warnings in his ear.

"What is a tailor?"

"A man who makes clothes. I make the clothes Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse wear, Monsieur."

"But my Maman and Papa do not want new clothes."

"Ah, but Monsieur le Comte asked me to come so he must want something."

"How do you make clothes?"

"We cut cloth into shapes that fit a man's body then sew them together into a shirt."

"How do you sew? How do you cut cloth? How do you know the shapes? How do you--"

"Armand, stop that," scolded Marie, swatting him on the rear through his robe. The tailor watched bemusedly as the boy started from the blow then pouted afterwards on her shoulder as they were led into the study. The hearth blazed with heat. A screen, brought in from the Comtesse's rooms, had been set up in the corner, behind which Jean would change his strip down and change his clothes. The Comte sat behind his desk, studying his accounts by the thin light that passed through the narrow window behind him. Jean was in a chair with yet another book clasped in his hands, reading almost fervently. Marguerite sat on a settee nearby, a sewing project that lay in her lap untouched as she stared into the flames. She was soon to leave the manor as Jean and his education become more the responsibility of the Comte instead of a nurse. Marie offered her a sympathetic smile that went unseen.

"Monseigneur, the tailor has arrived,” announced Marie with a curtsey towards the desk from the doorway.

“Thank you Marie. You may leave us,” replied Adrien, looking up briefly to acknowledge her before returning his attention to his numbers. “Jean, on your feet. The tailor is here to attend you.” The young Vicomte abandoned his reading, sliding off the hard-backed chair and leaving the book on the seat. Marie stepped aside, allowing the tailor, his assistant, and his wife pass into the room, and she turned to leave.

“Wait! I want to stay!” yelled Armand, trying to push off her shoulder and escape. “Papa, Monsieur, please!” He grabbed at the door, latching his hands around the edge. Marie pulled him bodily with little success then began to pry his hold free only to have him grab again with the free hand when she worked on the other.

“Armand!” called the Comte sharply, glaring at him. Armand and Marie both froze in the strangest position with his foot against her cheek and her reaching for his clasped hand, trying to dig her larger fingers under his to pull him free. Adrien stood from the desk and came up to them, his expression cold with disappointment and anger.

“This is not how I expect either of sons to act whether or not there are guests present,” he said steadily, looking his younger son in the eyes even though the boy tried to evade the gaze. “You will follow me at once.”

“Yes Monsieur,” mumbled Armand to the floor.

“Look at me when you speak Armand,” ordered Adrien sternly. Armand looked up, trembling and pale, his eyes bright.

“Yes Monsieur.” Adrien nodded once to him looked to Marie.

“Please bring our guests something to drink.”

“Yes Monseigneur.” She stood Armand next to her and ignored his hand weakly grabbing at her skirt to hold her back as she curtsied to the Comte and silently left, holding back a sob. He turned to the tailor, who appeared to be setting out his supplies but had obviously been listening as people are wont to do when there are disputes.

“I will return momentarily Monsieur,” said Adrien to the tailor. As they left, the three of them bowed their heads. Armand heard the tailor ask Jean to hold out his arms, but did not see anything as he stared at the back of his father’s boots as he followed the man into the next room, his bedchamber. Adrien pulled a chair away from the table in the room’s middle and sat himself in it.

“Come, Armand,” he ordered, waiting patiently as the boy approached with all the haste of a snail and tensed with instinctive readiness to bolt. He stood in front of the Comte with head bowed and hands behind his back, playing with his fingers and unable to keep still. Adrien bent down, picked him up under the arms and flipped over to lie across his knees on his stomach.

“No!” Armand squirmed in protest and flailed his feet as Adrien flipped up the back of the robe to reveal his bare bottom. Then the Vicomte yelped as his father’s hand was brought down with a sharp crack against the skin. Adrien let him breathe a moment then struck him several more times in steady succession. Palm stinging after a minute or two, he stopped and gingerly set Armand upright on his knee. The boy was stunned, blinking up at him with utter surprise, his cheeks dampened from silently shed tears.

“Armand, I did this because your behaviour was not to be tolerated,” said Adrien, gently combing his fingers through the boy’s black hair. “Making demands in such a manner is not how gentlemen conduct themselves, even more so when there are guests in the manor. Do you understand?”

“Yes Monsieur,” said Armand softly. He shuffled slightly to try and relieve the stinging warmth of his seat then settled when he could not find a point.

“Good.” He smiled at Armand and kissed his temple. “You will learn in time and soon enough you too will be breeched like your brother. For now, I want you to go back to your nurse and stay with her.”

“Monsieur, please,” Armand began then paused, biting his lip as he looked up warily at his father. Adrien inclined his head just a little, to be closer and possibly less intimidating.

“What is it, Armand?”

“I want to stay and watch.” Adrien sighed, smiled slightly, and nodded after a moment of thinking.

“Come with me then,” he said, patting his son’s shoulder and letting him slide down from his lap before leading him back into the study. Jean was now standing on a chair with a most serious face, his arms outstretched like that of a scarecrow and head held as upright as if it was supported by a stick. The tailor held pins between his lips and had wrapped only of the older boy’s arms in dark brown, brocade-patterned fabric and was attaching it together on the underside from shoulder to wrist. He would stop occasionally to have Jean bend his elbow to roll his shoulder to test the give in the fabric, make an adjustment, and then continue his work. His wife was seated with the other sleeve, already stitching it together and pulling out the pins as she arrived upon them, and the assistant was laying out a larger piece of the same dark brocade on the table to use later. Adrien led Armand over to Marie, who sat next to Marguerite, conversing quietly. On the small side table sat a tray laden with cups and a half-empty bottle of wine. When the nurses noticed the return of the Comte, they both stood and curtsied to him.

“Marie, here is your charge. See to it that he remains quiet and out of the tailor’s way as he observes.” Adrien nudged his son towards the young woman, who quickly came forward and took him by the hand to lead him to a seat near the fire. She lifted him up on to the seat then took the spot next to him between the boy and Marguerite, who had reseated herself at the Comte’s bidding. It was not as cramped as space as it could have been since the boy was still small enough to fit without issue.

Armand did not remain seated for very long, being quick to turn and rest on his knees so he could peer over the back of the lounge. Jean was facing towards the table now, having been turned so the tailor could easily drape the fabric over his back and pin it into place. He opened his mouth to speak then closed it again, remember that his father wanted him to be quiet. However, his curiosity burned his tongue until he could no longer contain it.

“Monsieur, what are you making?” he asked. Marie gasped and grabbed his arm.

“Armand, sit down properly now,” she ordered, forcefully turning him around. The little boy swung his legs and kicked his feet in the space between the floor and the seat absentmindedly for a moment or two. Growing tired of this, he moved to bouncing in place then passed to rough swaying from left to right, bumping into Marie’s side whenever he moved in her direction.

“Armand, sit still!” she scolded, becoming annoyed as his disobedience.

“Marie, I am bored,” he complained with a whine.

“If you are thus,” began Adrien from his retaken place behind his desk, “then perhaps you should go and find Madame. Marie, take him there at once.”

“But I—” Armand began to protest then bit his lip. The scolding his father had just given him previously was still fresh in his mind. He slid down from the lounge and took Marie’s offered hand, letting himself be silently led from the study. He could feel his brother’s eyes on him and Armand turned to see Jean watching him leave with the slightest smirk. His ears grew hot with embarrassment and he looked away.

“Madame should be in her rooms,” remarked Marie. “I believe she was sewing.” The corridor was empty, the other servants having already been through to clean earlier in the day. Coming into Jeanne’s rooms, of which the door was open, they found her with fabric set on her worktable and struggling with her tangled thread by the candlelight.

“Begging your pardon, Madame,” said Marie, curtseying to the lady, “but Monsieur asked me to bring the young Vicomte to you as he was causing too much mischief in the study.” Jeanne smiled and waved for her son to come closer to her, which he did. She bent down to kiss his forehead.

“My curious little boy would you like to help me?” she asked, gently caressing his cheek. Armand nodded, his eyes alight.

“Oui Maman. What can I do?” Jeanne took his hands and held them up perpendicular to the floor in front of him and a space apart.

“Keep your hands just so, my dear boy, and do not move.” She took one end of her thread and tied it to his littlest finger. Then she began to wrap it steadily around one hand and down around the other in a loop. He wiggled his fingers a little as she did so.

“Now Armand, what did I say?”

“But Maman it itches!” Jeanne tapped the end of his nose with a finger.

“The longer you keep still, the sooner I will be finished. Marie, do sit there on that stool. You do not have to stand forever.” Armand stared up at Jeanne’s face as she worked, her eyes focused solely on the winding red thread in her long, lithe fingers as she untangled it. She would pause occasionally to tuck a wispy filament of her black hair back behind her ears and pursed her rosy lips thoughtfully over each knot in the strand. He remained very still, absorbed in the contemplation of his mother’s face with its pale, porcelain skin, perked little nose, and short, thick lashes. Her high-boned cheeks added a distinguished air to her features while their rounded softness kept her from appearing angular and bird-like. He glanced over at Marie with a wide smile and she returned it.

“There we go!” said Jeanne as she slid the mass of thread from off the boy’s hand. “Well done mon petit. You were very helpful indeed.” Setting the thread on the table, she gathered up Armand in her arms and hugged him close. He buried his face in her neck, breathing in her scent of jasmine. She held him for a few moments, petting the back of his head before tugging him away and settling him on her lap.

“You will be such a wonderful gentleman when you have grown,” she said softly, brushing hair out of his face. “Soon, you will be breeched like your brother and you will study with him to be as learned as you can.”

“I promise I’ll do it all Maman,” said Armand earnestly. “I will be a good man and I will read my books and I will be just like Monsieur.” Marie giggled at his enthusiasm and Jeanne smiled.

“If there is anyone I would ask that you emulate, my boy, it would certainly be your father.”


End file.
